The Rise of the Dark Hand
by You'llNeverKnow1212
Summary: The whole wizarding world is terrified of the dark wizard Lord Voldemort. But little do they know that larger threats are emerging. Set during 5th year.


**A new idea after a long break from writing, not sure how it'll turn out. My other stories haven't been updated in a while, so I may work on that. If you find any problems, feel free to let me know. **

Though one may not perceive the dilapidated house as anything other than an unremarkable ruin, anyone who saw it would have kept their distance, unwilling to look past its shuttered windows. But isolated as it was, nobody noticed the sinister aura surrounding the place, acting as a malevolent force all its own.

There was a sharp crack that resonated through the abandoned area, and a man seem to appear out of thin air just beyond the gates of the house. He stood tall and proud, with an air of supreme confidence. Pushing open the rusty gate, he strode purposefully towards the ancient building, knocking the once-magnificent wooden door clean off it's hinges.

He had a gaunt, pale face - one that once upon a time had been strikingly handsome. Now, however, his dark ambitions had led him to pursue his evil interests, and he had destroyed himself in the process. Stretched tight across his face, his skin seemed molded out of melted wax, his serpentine nostrils hardly more than slits on his face where his nose should be. Truly, he was an abomination, hardly fit to be called human. This man was the dark wizard Lord Voldemort, the very same that had been terrorizing the wizarding world for so many years.

Voldemort pulled out his wand and moved forward into the hall. At the end of it was a room, empty except for a table, old yet still retaining it's former majesty. The engraved snakes' glowed a vibrant green in the darkness, casting an emerald glow on their silver bodies. Though he approached the table, his focus was not on the furniture rather the object that lay on it, the same from which the vile atmosphere was emanating from. There lay a book, at least 6 inches thick and appearing old and tattered, like a useless old textbook. But Lord Voldemort was not easily fooled by appearances.

Scarlet eyes glinting greedily, the wizard stared at the book for a second. "Finally," he announced in his cold, high-pitched voice that usually betrayed no emotion, but no betrayed the slightest hint of underlying excitement. "Finally, I shall surpass the greatest wizards of history once and for all! My magic will have no limits, and I shall push beyond the limits of anything that mankind could even dream of achieving."

He reached a bony hand towards the book. Its aura increased, the malicious intent growing to such a level that the bravest of men would have turned tail and fled before it. but the hand crept forward undeterred, for it belonged to no man. Grasping the book, Voldemort lifted the blank cover, releasing a cloud of dust to which he paid no heed. At first glance the pages seemed empty, but words slowly crept across the delicate parchment. The first few pages were titled 'VICTIMS:', followed by a long list of names spanning many pages. The reader's lips curled in disgust at how weak those who failed must have been. They certainly couldn't have been anything compared to him.

About to flip past the columns of unfamiliar ancient names, something caught his eye. The dark wizard took a closer look at the last name on the list and froze. There, scrawled in what was unmistakably blood - a deep scarlet no matter how pure - was the name Salazar Slytherin.

Reading this made the Dark Lord's excitement rise even higher than before. "I shall achieve that which not even my forefather could. I will succeed and eradicate the muggle filth that taints the pure of the wizarding world."

Voldemort had thought about horcruxes, but decided against them. He wouldn't split his soul; horcruxes could still be destroyed, they were not infallible. No matter the number, souls were still weak. What he needed was to get rid of his soul altogether and replace it with one of his own twisted making. And in searching for a way to accomplish this task, the dark lord had come across this treasure. Though this book contained the secret he was looking for, nobody had ever performed the ritual successfully before. But then again, thought Voldemort, he was the only person ever fit to rule over the purebloods and bring them to glory.

Turning the yellowed pages quickly, Voldemort soon found what he wanted. He began to recite the spell, having already met its simple prerequisite of murdering 50 people in cold blood long ago. Ignoring the pain consuming his body, the wizard's tongue never faltered. As soon as the last word left his thin lips, his body erupted into flame.

The pain was overwhelming. It took all his willpower to ignore it and try to keep a clear head - he knew he would need it for this critical stage of the ritual. The flames surrounding him were black and seemed to be coming out of his body. They snaked over each other, intertwining and reaching out towards the book. The twisting tongues of black energy formed a sort of rope that connected the book to Voldemort. As soon as the connection was established, the flames set the book alight.

Then there came a Voice from the book, a Voice of dark and hungry power. The magnitude of it was unlike anything that Voldemort had ever felt before. The Voice was unaccompanied by any body as far as he could tell.

It spoke, "Do you wish to extract your soul from your body?"

Voldemort had never been afraid of anything before, but this Voice belonged to something far beyond his power to control. It was impossible for him to resist the cold, clear fear that was traveling through his body, apparent even through the undying pain.

Nevertheless, he mustered up the courage to reply. "Yes," came the simple answer.

Now the Voice boomed in what seemed to be anger. "Then bow before me, worm!"

This scared Voldemort to an extent that he had never previously experienced, but nothing could frighten him to such a degree that he would bow before anyone or anything. His eyes narrowed into slits, and though his muscles felt like they were on fire, he fueled them with his anger and managed to raise his wand.

"So that is your answer. Then strike." It was impossible to detect any emotion in this statement. Voldemort wanted to attack something - anything - but he didn't know what to hit. After all, demolishing a book that was connected to your soul could have pretty serious side effects. "Very well then," continued the Voice. "I _shall_ consume your soul - and the rest of you with it!"

The very little color in Voldemort's face faded as he turned from very pale to gray. He witnessed with a sense of ever-growing dread a huge black hand reaching out of the book. It seemed to be made of an intangible material, maybe shadow or darkness, he couldn't tell. But what was very clear was that the wizard knew there was no fighting it. The hand grasped the rope of flames and ripped it from the wizard's body.

Voldemort screamed a high-pitched, chilling scream, losing all sense of dignity as waves of unbearable pain crashed down on him. His legs suddenly unable to support his weight, he fell to his knees, the muscles of his arms not obeying his commands as they released his wand which clattered onto the floor to his left. The Black Hand, still holding the rope, retreated back into the book. For a second it seemed as if there would be no further repercussions. Then there emitted from the book a wave of flame, spreading instantly and incinerating everything in a five mile radius, leaving nothing but ashes behind.

Hundreds of miles away, the boy who lived slept soundly, safe in his dormitory at Hogwarts. He was Harry potter, the boy widely recognized as the world's only chance against Lord Voldemort. But little did they know that Voldemort was gone and there was a much greater evil awakening.


End file.
